party chez peas and ant

So for the first time in 7 years I don't have plans for tonight. (I'm not a complete loser just yet, I say hastily, as I was invited to some Sandton-push-up-bra-rah rah-drink-Jagerbombs-and-score-people-with-the-same-names-then-swap-business-cards-and-pass-out-on-Rivonia-Road event, but declined - God, Fridays are so predictable).

This alone scares me: I actually physically turned down a perfectly and potentially fantastic man-groping evening on a Friday night.

How depressed am I?

Being an agoraphobic recluse, however, doesn't necessarily mean you have to be incessantly boring. I'll buy a cat and watch infomercials when I've run out of energy - this isn't the problem. I'm hiding away from men. That's what I'm doing. They are dangerous, and chances are I'll see one of the three bastards that have made me the whiny bitch I am today.

So. I went and bought two bottles of cheap wine and a new supersonic microphone. And a cake. ("Fuck it. I'm buying a cake.") I may be staying in, but I'm not going to be quiet about it.

The microphone is enormous: with three sound settings, an echo feature, a detachable cord, and something called a "decibel equaliser." Ant and I plan to get hopelessly drunk, roll around on the carpet in our winter doondies, strangle a wild cat over the supersonic microphone, and possibly chunder when it's all over. Perhaps, once adequately and properly blotto, we'll go somewhere. But for now, I just hope my neighbours are going out for the evening. Because it's going to be nasty. And an eviction notice looms like the bird 'flu in China.

Tomorrow I'm going as a corporate date with a friend of mine. Lucky bugger.